


Vermillion

by thefroglord



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal does an oopsie, M/M, Murder Husbands, Murder-Suicide, Oneshot, Someone Help Will Graham, Suicide, Unrequited Love, anyways enjoy, i wish i’d made this more poetic but i’m not a very good writer, might end up editing this later, nor am i very patient, this sucks but i wanted to get it over with, ”well shit guess we’ve both gotta die now huh”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefroglord/pseuds/thefroglord
Summary: Will grows further distant - and it was far from undetected by Hannibal. He had to keep him. Somehow.-Not quite sure when in the show it would take place. Hannibal runs out of options, commits a murder-suicide in the most Hannibal Lecter way possible; by turning it into his most intricate artwork yet.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	Vermillion

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

Hannibal sighs, letting the breath from his lungs. 

Will was late. Again.

The doctor takes a breath, his tongue between his teeth. He never grew angry, and yet, the burbling of something hot and acidic stung between his ribs. A hurt. Perhaps they simply needed to adjust the schedule - Hannibal would have been alright if Will had asked, indeed, he’d be more than happy to accommodate. Yet, Will had not asked. Naughty boy, he was. But not careless. Far from careless. Did Will intend to tease him? To dangle himself in front of him, like a shiny, bloody slab of meat? At the very least, Lecter wished to bury his teeth in the man. Perhaps he’d learn to come earlier. 

At long last, the door opens, and the long-expected and somewhat-disgruntled patient had arrived. Will. He’d just come from a scene, most likely, his hands radiating the coppery stench of old blood. The doctor’s eyes rise to the patient’s. Silence.

“Sorry, I’m late. Lost track of time.”

The agent settles himself in, his voice as smooth and careful as always. His brows furrow as his eyes wander around the room, scanning for any trace of unfamiliarity. Hannibal takes a breath.

“Perhaps we should reschedule your appointments, Will. This is the third time you’ve come in late.” He raises a sculpted brow in question. Will seemed...uncomfortable. 

“I...suppose. Though, with the...inconsistent nature of Jack’s calling upon me, it may be...difficult.”

“It?”

“Searching for the right time.”

They pause. 

“...where did you come from? You smell of blood, and...linen.”

Will chuckles, shifting in his seat. 

“A, uh, a scene. A new one. Fresh. It was....an interesting case. A young woman, murdered in a laundromat, dismembered, miscellaneous appendages shoved into each of the machines.” Hannibal nods.

“And what was this killer’s process? His design?”

“...He wanted to....cleanse them. Easiest way he knew how. He isn’t rich, he doesn’t- he doesn’t have many resources. His victim was ‘dirty’ somehow. And he knew that.”

Hannibal nods once more, folding his hands. His eyes thin, prodding deep into the profiler’s. He didn’t reciprocate. Taking a breath, the doctor shifts. 

“Will, I feel that you aren’t fully participating in our therapy.” Will seemed almost startled.

“I...am participating as much as I can.”

“I cannot help you if you do not also take an active role. I cannot help you if you do not help me.”  
Will bites his cheek, his nostrils flaring. He smelled of dissent. 

“...perhaps I cannot help you, after all.”

Will showed no aversion to the concept, and the twinge between Hannibal’s ribs grew into a deep, ugly ache. There is a silence between the two. A moment of peace. The quiet before the storm. He felt a quiver at his lip.

“...you’ve been very rude, Will.”

That seemed to get his attention. 

“...my apologies, then.”

Hannibal clicks his tongue. Not good enough. Even were he to apologize, he’d leave him, and never return. Hannibal couldn’t have that, oh, no. A maestro without a muse is simply not a maestro at all. A thousand ideas crash through Hannibal’s skull at once, sweeping against his corneas, gripping at his heart. There was one, single, common theme. 

_If Will would not stay while alive, he must, then, stay while dead._

In one quick motion, Hannibal rises from his seat, toppling Will’s on its back. The agent’s eyes flicker as he jumps into action, his palms to Hannibal’s shoulders, pressing his body backward. Unfortunately for our dearest Will, Hannibal was far, far stronger. The doctor swiftly pins Will’s hands to the floor, his wrists contained in a single, calloused hand, his other wrapping around the profiler’s neck. 

“Dr.— Lecter- get— off—“ the agent gasps for breath, growling as he bites at Hannibal’s hand. 

A request he would not heed.

Hannibal’s heart further pangs as he watches the light drain from Will’s eyes, tears slowly pooling at his jaw, his face twisted into a deep expression of struggle. Will’s gasps and cries fill the doctor’s ears, and for a moment, his own eyes mirror the color of Hannibal’s. His last vision, that of his murderer, and his greatest admirer. Will goes limp. The job was done.

The doctor slowly removes his grip, his knuckles aching. He gasps in breaths, his eyes trained on his victim. Now, this...was an interesting situation. An interesting situation indeed. Had Will just come from a scene, Jack would certainly be aware of his location. He might attempt to redirect the conversation, but Jack was no moron - though, he was certainly...lacking. His breath slows as Hannibal finally realizes that he’d dug himself into a hole he could not get out of. A hole deep, and ugly, and without Will.

 _Without Will._

And that simply would not do.

\- 

Calloused, stained hands come to dust an aged brow. Will’s body falls limply into elegantly arranged shrubbery - all by Lecter’s design, of course. His shallow breath persists, his palm coming over his face. This was not his design. The ugly, the unplanned, the...precarious. He hums, scooping the man into his arms. If only he had chosen to stay, perhaps he would be alive in Hannibal’s hold, pulse-fueled hands full of warmth to share. Hannibal chews his lip. Reminiscence wasn’t going to finish his artwork. 

With rich tenderness, the doctor lays Will to rest in a bed of meticulously chosen flowers, each complimenting a hue in his living skin, his hypnotizing eyes, his effortlessly pretty curls - all taken into account, all matched. All but a brilliantly scarlet flower, pressed between leaves. A vermillion matched only by that flowing within Will’s veins. An homage to what made them not only similar, but the same. Hannibal regretted not creating him in more similarity to himself. Not enough time. The stage set, Hannibal could begin the next step. 

A decorated canvas to capture the moment. 

“I almost expected you to have risen, simply to criticize me,” the doctor remarks with a chuckle, resonating in his broad chest. His ruby eyes wander past his marked canvas, towards Will’s body, bathed in the dim light of sunrise. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or perhaps the last remaining glimmer of sanity escaping him, but Hannibal almost thought he saw the agent’s eyes flutter. Unfortunately, the dead cannot blink. Unfortunately.

“...alas. The shattered teacup fails to put itself back together, no matter my wanting it to.” He almost chuckled once more, but it died in his throat. He gulps it down, though the lump building in his throat persisted. He knew what he had to do next. 

From a pocket within his blazer, Hannibal retrieves three vials, a syringe, and a needle. He rolls each in his hands, savoring the feeling of the cold glass on his calloused fingertips. His eyes flicker to Will once again.

“Pancuronium bromide, potassium chloride, and midazolam”, he explains, breaking each and emptying their contents into the receiving end of the syringe. “Each drug found in a lethal injection. Pancuronium bromide, to paralyze me, midazolam to sedate me, and potassium chloride to stop my heart. A well-thought out combination, really. I’d hate to be conscious while I died,” he continues, his eyes once again flickering towards the agent. “I’m sorry I didn’t afford you the same courtesy, Will.” He slowly lowers the compressor into place, his brow furrowing as the needle dribbles onto his hand.

“I wonder if you’d have given me this treatment, had you figured out I was who I was,” he remarks with a macabre smile. It was rather distasteful, he admitted, though it was hard to resist jesting in such a joyous moment. This moment; it was to be his magnum opus. His grand finale. The end of the Chesapeake Ripper, the end of Il Mostró. The end of Hannibal Lecter. It had never scared him, death - in fact, he rather took pleasure in the idea. The reassurance that one day his ever-ticking cranium might one day cease. It soothed him, in all his relentless ideation. He undresses.

Indecent. The cannibal hums to himself, his tongue souring in the distaste. However, his masterpiece would not be complete were he not matching it perfectly, and thus his appreciation for human anatomy had betrayed him, just this once. Rather, it would be more disrespectful to drape Will in fabrics and hide his beauty from the eye of God, or so he rationalized. Hannibal’s tongue clicks as he takes a breath, deep, filling his lungs. He trains his eyes on his next objective. It was time.

Laying himself to rest beside his muse was the simplest part yet. He takes a breath, curling into his resting place. A mirror image, it was to be. His eyes flicker to the dead man’s face, searching for a last trace of consciousness, of light, of life. Alas, there was none to be found. A wave of disappointment washes over the doctor, though it doesn’t last long. He slowly lifts the syringe, pressing the needle into his arm. The liquid slowly pulses through, nesting within Hannibal’s bloodstream. Homogenizing. 

It had finally become real. 

Hand-in hand, the Chesapeake Ripper finds his demise alongside his final victim, too precious to eat. 

And as Dr. Hannibal Lecter feels his eyes grow heavy, and his limbs grow numb, 

He finally knows peace.


End file.
